


shadowed

by jirin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Haunting, Implied Feelings, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jirin/pseuds/jirin
Summary: Caught on opposite sides of the war, Felix stumbles across a wounded Sylvain and against his better judgment, heals him.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	shadowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastembers (last_embers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/last_embers/gifts).



> Hi giftee! I took your trick prompt of _characters being on opposite sides during the war, or being haunted by a dead friend/lover_ , combining them together for a healthy dose of angst and (very mild) horror. This set in a timeline when Felix has joined the Black Eagles, and Sylvain stays with the Blue Lions. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Felix winces, stripping off his coat gingerly.

The sunlight filtering through the dull fabric of his tent is a feeble excuse for warmth, with the afternoon already turning into evening. He’s sore, his back and thighs aching from a full day in the saddle. Half of his armour is already stripped off and resting near the saddlebags behind him. To the side, his bedroll lies waiting, still tied up with a worn leather string.

He shakes his head, irritated. They’d started out from Garreg Mach four days ago, thinking it would be a straightforward march into Faerghus, through the Tailtean Plains. Then came the reports of a demonic beast lurking to the east, _no more than just the one small beast_ , the messenger had assured them. The townspeople were nervous, anxious about their livestock—perhaps a warrior or two could be spared, someone familiar with the region.

Felix had been in the commander’s tent when the messenger arrived, and watched Edelgard’s thoughtful expression as she considered the report. Then Edelgard had glanced towards Hubert, then Byleth, then past them until her gaze landed on Felix, and he’d suppressed the scowl from his face, resigned, even before she opened her mouth to ask.

It wasn’t as though he violently objected to being sent to put down a demonic beast, but this close to Faerghus, surely—

A small noise snaps him out of his thoughts, and Felix starts, head jerking towards the front of his tent. He listens in tense silence, before he hears it again: a clatter of hooves, and the sound of an animal’s heavy breathing.

With a curse under his breath, he grabs his scabbard and strides over, pulling back the tent cloth before shielding his eyes.

To the west, over the distant hills bordering the Tailtean Plains, the sun is beginning to sink below the horizon. For a moment, Felix narrows his eyes, searching through the long shadows cast across his hastily set-up campsite. Then he sees it, a dark shadow behind the trees, moving towards him. Not a demonic beast judging by its size, but a horseman. His hand flies to his sword and unsheathes it, feet shifting in the dirt to widen his stance. Even a mounted stranger could pose a considerable threat this far from the nearest town.

“Who are you—” Felix begins tersely, but his words fade away as the rider comes into the clearing, yanking their exhausted looking horse to an unsteady halt.

He stares, wide-eyed. The rider’s posture is awkward, half slumping over the saddle with one arm curled around their midsection. The dark metal of their heavy, jagged armour is scuffed and dented, with plates missing in some places. Clear signs of having left a battlefield, if it wasn’t obvious from the blood trickling down their cheek, half covered by familiar red hair—

Felix feels his sword grip loosen, slightly. “Sylvain?” he croaks, disbelieving.

The rider lifts their head slightly, just enough for Felix to meet his— _Sylvain’s_ tired eyes, which widen in surprise.

“Felix? Is that you?” Sylvain’s words come out nearly pitched with pain, barely loud enough to carry across the small gap between them. Then his gaze falls to the sword, still held between Felix and himself, and he lets out a huff of a laugh. The corners of his eyes crinkle with the bitter smile he wears. “Well, shit. Guess I shouldn’t be glad to see you. Just...make it quick? For old times’ sake?”

Felix stares at him. His thoughts are racing—caught between the concern he has for the blood that continues to drip down Sylvain’s chin, and the questions threatening to burst from his chest. All the things left unspoken between them, when Felix had turned his back on the Kingdom—but not before seeing the flash of betrayal across Sylvain’s face, as he turned and walked away.

But Felix shoves the thoughts away. The more important question here is where the hell did Sylvain come from? They weren’t due to intercept Dimitri’s forces for another two days. And certainly not in this direction; Felix is too off-course to even consider this a scouting route. The nearest battlefield would be at least a day’s ride away, closer to the main force of Edelgard’s army.

Felix tightens his grip on his sword, holding it steady between them. He shouldn’t let his guard down. Shouldn’t trust that this—this stranger would truly be Sylvain in flesh. It’s been years since he’s seen Sylvain; a lifetime since they were boys at Garreg Mach.

He shouldn’t look this familiar.

But then Sylvain wavers, the metal plates of his armor creaking in warning, and Felix reacts before he can think. He lunges forward, swiftly sheathing his sword to catch the horse’s bridle in one hand, and grabbing hold of Sylvain’s unarmoured arm with the other. He barely breaks Sylvain’s fall, and Sylvain collapses to the ground with a rattle of metal and a wet cough. It leaves a splatter of blood on the ground.

“Fuck,” Felix whispers, glancing back into the trees in the direction Sylvain came from. There’s no-one there—only the slowly shifting shadows cast by the setting sun. Next to him, the horse shakes its head, blowing out a heavy breath before it drops its head to tentatively nose at Sylvain.

Sylvain doesn’t respond.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Felix bites out again, more vehemently, but he’s already kneeling beside the limp arm still in his grip.

He feels roughly at Sylvain’s wrist, dredging up what little healing knowledge he can from the far reaches of his memory. There’s a pulse, but it’s barely there and fluttering unsteadily. _Too much lost blood_ , Felix thinks, and it comes with an unexpected wave of anger. What the hell did Sylvain think he was doing, riding into the middle of nowhere this wounded? In the back of his mind, he can hear the echo of Mercede’s patient voice, from back at Garreg Mach, _there’s only so much healing can do_. He pulls roughly at Sylvain’s arm, still wrapped around his stomach. A dark patch pools under the crack in Sylvain’s armour, almost black with how heavily the cloth underneath it is soaked in blood.

This close, the scent of iron in the air is so thick, so sickly sweet it’s almost nauseating.

It takes a few desperate minutes of fumbling before he manages to unfasten the straps holding Sylvain’s chest-piece in place. He ends up ripping through the fabric of Sylvain’s shirt, fabric squelches wetly under the clench of his hands, and his heart sinks at just how much blood there is. How torn open the wound is, how ripped the skin is.

“Hey, Felix.” Sylvain stirs, eyes opening meeting his own. The warm, honey-brown of his gaze makes a lump rise in Felix’s throat; he shouldn’t be this _familiar_. “Y’know, if you wanted me to undress, all you had to do was ask.”

And like that, the years of silence between them melt away like snow. “You’re incorrigible. Just...shut up,” Felix says. He ignores how the words steady him.

Sylvain is still conscious at least; that was a good sign, right?

He takes a few deep, unsteady breaths. Then he presses his hand over the gaping edges of the wound and mutters under his breath. A rush of magic streams down his fingers, raw and untempered with his inexperience. Sylvain jolts when the magic hits his system, moaning with pain, and Felix shuffles awkwardly, grimacing, until he can cradle Sylvain’s head with his knees, holding him in place. He keeps a light grip on Sylvain’s jaw, feeling the soft skin under Sylvain’s chin where a pulse beats a dogged rhythm against his fingertips.

It’s dangerous, relying on the intuitive nature of magic to correctly close the open wound, when it’s this bad. Felix isn’t a healer, not really—this is no more than glorified first aid. All he can do is shove as much magic into Sylvain as he can to close the wound and stem the bleeding, praying it’s enough to make Sylvain look more like a human being and less like a butchered animal.

“Hurts.” Sylvain’s words are back to a whisper, strained with pain. “Felix, it hurts. Feels like you’re touching around inside me, and not…in a good way.”

Felix shakes his head roughly. He’s breathing hard now, the adrenaline rush and unusual pressure on his scant magical resources making his head feel light. “I told you to shut up, didn’t I? Just…I need to concentrate. Be quiet.”

The pull on his magic lessens, and Felix draws back to look at the edges of the wound, where the skin is still split. His hand is a mess, palm slicked in the dark crimson of venial blood and half-congealed clots. It takes a few tries for his fingers to gain enough traction to push the edges of the wound together, leaving wet streaks across Sylvain’s stomach, but he draws on his pool of magic again, and this time he sees the skin slowly seal together.

The faint note of relief in Sylvain’s groan tells him it’s working.

After several minutes, Felix finally draws his trembling hand back, slumping back. He’s exhausted. The blood clinging to him is already becoming tacky with exposure to the air, and he has to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his clothes.

“That’s all I can do,” he tells Sylvain. His words come out shaky, and he forces his voice into firmness. There’s an ugly, raw looking scar on Sylvain’s stomach, but the newly healed skin seems to hold. “You should see a proper healer, or—or something, because I can’t—that’s all I can do.”

Sylvain struggles to sit up, but gives up after a moment, letting his head fall back against Felix’s knees. “Thank you,” he tells him, quietly. He sounds tired, his words faint as he closes his eyes. “Really didn’t expect to see you here. Thought I was gonna die alone, in the middle of nowhere. Seriously. Dunno how I stumbled across you. Maybe the goddess was smiling down on me. Or maybe I’m already dying and this is just one last dream, but hey, if it is…then I’m still glad I get to see you.”

Felix feels his hand curl into a fist at his side, dried blood falling away. “Fuck you,” he says, but there’s no feeling in it. He’s not sure what he feels. Cold, perhaps. Numb, after the shock of adrenaline has faded. Grief, for the way familiarity aches within him like an old wound.

Below him, Sylvain smiles, a wry twist of his lips even with his eyes still closed, as if he can hear Felix’s thoughts.

Felix looks away. “Get up. You can’t stay out here,” he says, eventually.

He helps Sylvain sit up, steadying him by the shoulders as Sylvain stifles a noise at the effort. Felix’s own legs are wobbly when he stands. He lets himself just stand there and breathe for a minute, when they’re both up. Helping Sylvain into his tent is a slow, laborious process. He uses his pouch of water and a spare rag to wipe away as much of the blood off Sylvain as he can, then reaches for a length of rope.

“Really?” Sylvain says, even though he offers no resistance as Felix ties his wrists together. There’s a tired air of humour in his voice. “Shouldn’t you ask a guy out before—”

“Don’t,” Felix warns, through gritted teeth. Trust Sylvain to be like this, even on death’s door. He yanks the rope tighter in his irritation, and Sylvain winces.

“Fine, fine. But seriously, it’d be pretty shitty for me to attack you now, y’know? I know you think I have no honour, but give me a little credit.”

A rough touch makes Felix freeze, looking down to where Sylvain holds onto his hand, even with his own hands bound together. But he sets his jaw, continuing. He shakes off Sylvain’s grip, ignoring the loss of warmth, and loosens the rope just enough not to cut off circulation.

“Hey, Felix? I meant it, when I said I was glad I found you.”

Sylvain’s voice is low enough, _honest_ enough to make Felix stifle a shiver. He stands instead. “I’m going to the river to wash up,” he says shortly, and Sylvain gives him a tired smile as he leaves.

When Felix returns, his hands are pink and sore. He’d had to scrub to lift all of the drying blood from his skin, and out from under his nails. The scent is still there though, caught around him like a particularly morbid cloud and Felix clenches his jaw. It shouldn’t annoy him, not when he’s already fought his fair share of battles, seen the bloodshed his own sword draws. But the thought of having Sylvain’s blood on his hands makes him more uneasy than he likes.

The thought lingers like a bur, stubbornly clinging to his clothes. His gaze slides over to Sylvain, already sleeping soundly in his bedroll. He doesn’t know what he’ll do tomorrow. Saving an enemy of the Empire isn’t going to be something he can easily explain. But there’s no merit to regretting his actions now; what’s done is done.

With one final glance to Sylvain, Felix settles in against the tent pole opposite to the bedroll, sword tucked into the crook of his sword, to rest.

Felix wakes to the soft sound of bird call, from somewhere outside his tent. The painful crick in his neck makes itself known before he opens his eyes, and he forgets, for a brief moment, why he’s sitting up against a tent pole rather than wrapped in the warmth of his bedroll, lying empty on the other side.

Then he remembers, memories of yesterday slamming into him like a battering ram. He jumps to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his spine. His eyes dart from side to side, heart thudding as loud as thunder in his ears. But his tent is silent and bare. The gentle light of the rising sun brings its emptiness into stark relief. His bedroll lies empty, almost untouched beyond the turned back corner—as though nobody had slept in it through the night. There are no ropes tangled around the tent pole. No sign of anyone else.

Felix stares for another moment, uncertain, then strides over to yank open his tent flap.

But the outside world only meets him with the quiet peace of the early morning.

There are no footprints, no horse. No splatter of blood. No scuff marks in the dirt, where he’d knelt and healed Sylvain just yesterday.

Felix rubs his eyes, then glances around again. Stares at his hands, bare and clean looking.

There’s an ache inside him that he can’t explain. A turmoil of grief and dread and regret, that swells larger and larger in his chest until it threatens to swallow him. He turns to the west, to the Tailtean Plains, where Edelgard’s army must be marching onward.

There’s a sense of terrible certainty growing in him.

He stands there for longer than he knows, staring westward, before eventually turning away, back into his tent.

**Author's Note:**

> This was very mildly inspired by my tendency to use Felix as a back-up healer on my runs, haha. Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always appreciated
> 
> Also, I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/sejirin) if you'd like to come talk!! (*´▽｀*)


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